Puffy White And Hazy Gray Clouds Float Comments

Melody and I live on a sagebrush mesa 12 miles west of Taos, New Mexico. On one side of our open, two-car yellow-pine garage is a nest with four beautiful Mountain Bluebird chicks. On the other side, another nest is filled with five baby Say's Phoebies. The two mother birds have been feeding these baby chicks for over two weeks.
The poet makes every decision in pursuit of a poem; what direction to drive, what hill to climb, what tree to kiss, what canyon to enter. It's June, I'm 3 miles west of our house on the crown of a rolling landscape of sage, juniper, and piñon pine. An occasional black volcanic rock dots the terrain. I'm standing on a wide, tongue-shaped precipice of mesa encircled on three sides by the deep Arroyo Aguaje de la Petaca, a dry riverbed with a narrow ribbon of sand winding through more sagebrush. The overbearing midday sun is at it's apex. I have patience for an overbearing sun. I have no patience for an overbearing bully. I'm looking for the body, bones, or whatever remains, of a murdered woman.
He, was once a cute, feisty, blond-haired little boy with a long straight nose and intense dark eyes, born and raised in St. John Baptist Parish northwest of New Orleans. She, a precious little girl with large doughy brown eyes and auburn hair from Horseshoe Bay near Austin. He, at 40, was a felon with cold eyes and a long record of arrest, including a string of DWI's. She, at 36, a former high school beauty queen and United States Marine, who for some unknown reason was attracted to dangerous men. He was a dangerous man.
Did he, have, an overbearing mother like so many serial killers I've read about; a Mom so twisted by the Word of Jesus she invented her own interpretation of Christian love?
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